


Taste Buds

by wordbending



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Child Death, Child Injury, Child Neglect, Eating Disorders, Food, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Selectively Mute Frisk (Undertale), Speech Disorders, unreality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:27:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22153996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordbending/pseuds/wordbending
Summary: You have to eat. You can't survive without food, after all - and you don't want to die by starvation.It's too bad then that you didn't bring any food, that most food makes you sick, and that your only companion is an unhelpful phantom who won't share their name.
Relationships: Chara & Frisk (Undertale)
Comments: 25
Kudos: 116





	Taste Buds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [light_rises](https://archiveofourown.org/users/light_rises/gifts).



> Please mind the warnings in the tags. This fic features violent character death of a child, referenced child injuries, references to severe child abuse, neglect, and abandonment, and references to severe unreality/distorted reality.

_“It says ‘take one’,_ says the voice in your head, the voice that sometimes takes on the vague shape of a child about your age, wearing a smile that’s too big for their face. _Take a candy? Yes? No?_

You wonder who they’re talking to. Your vision is, to put it kindly, terrible, but you can tell a candy bowl when you see one. Halloween was your favorite time of year, as much for the free candy as the excuse to get out of your house.

Either way, you wish they’d leave. You don’t like the feeling of them watching you, much less from inside you. You don’t like having someone inside your head at all. And they creep you out, if you’re being perfectly honest. You think they would even if they weren’t a phantom.

The phantom waits quietly for a response from somewhere, and then prods you, like a mental pinch - take the candy. You want to ignore their commands, but your stomach rumbles in protest at the very thought. You’re pretty sure you haven’t eaten or drank anything in days.

Even though you’re just as sure you only started climbing the mountain a few hours ago.

You carefully, so as not to knock the bowl over, take a piece of candy. You look at it, turning the wrapper over in your hands. It’s a very small candy, dwarfed by your large hands, made to be easily chewed. The label says “MONSTER CANDY,” which makes you wonder if it’s monsters or humans who are bad at naming things.

 _Has a distinct, non-licorice flavor_ , says the phantom, unhelpfully.

Take another, it prods abruptly, drawing your attention to the candy bowl.

You don’t want to. You remember one Halloween where you’d stuffed as much candy from a candy bowl as you could into your plastic pumpkin bucket, until it ran out of room and you stuffed them into the pocket of your overalls. You remember the door opening and someone shouting at you. You remember your parents too - their looks of disapproval somehow worse than what they did to you afterwards.

The phantom prods again. Take another.

Very gently, because the sensation of being prodded like that is too uncomfortable to ignore, you take a second piece of the monster candy.

 _You took more candy. How disgusting,_ says the phantom derisively, and your gut twists for reasons you can’t explain - either out of anger or disgust, you’re not sure. The phantom mocking you for doing what they told you to do makes you feel both at once. It’s unfair.

And you swear you saw it smile wider.

The phantom prods you again. Take another.

Without any hesitation, without any carefulness, you take one. The candy bowl rocks violently.

 _You take another piece,_ says the phantom, and their tone makes you feel like you’re four years old all over again, crying and sobbing under your parents’ withering glares. _You feel like the scum of the Earth._

The phantom prods again and, in a split-second, your hands slap out at the candy bowl, knocking it to the ground with a crash. Candy covers the floor in a shapeless pile.

Some part of you thinks the candy bowl deserved it. Another part of you thinks that thinking that makes you a horrible, horrible person.

_Look at what you’ve done._

You try to ignore the phantom, which is difficult when you seem to be sharing a brain. Instead, you unwrap one of the candies and put it in your mouth, because what was all this _for_ if not to eat them?

You immediately bite down on your tongue to stop from spitting the candy onto the floor. Your whole body cringes like a crushed soda can as you struggle to keep it in your mouth, to swallow it, just like you’d swallow your medication at home.

_...Tastes like licorice._

You decide not to eat any more of the monster candy.

* * *

“For no reason in particular... which do you prefer?” says Toriel. “Cinnamon or butterscotch?”

You wish you could say nothing, in both senses of the word. You don’t know how to explain that you don’t know, because you’ve never had cinnamon or butterscotch, and those are things that you don’t want because they’re for special kids and not kids like you, so you don’t say any of that. Instead, your hoarse, unused voice repeats what the phantom says to you - _butterscotch._

You wonder if that’s what the phantom prefers.

Less than a minute later, Toriel calls again.

“You do not _dislike_ cinnamon, do you? I know what your preference is, but... would you turn up your nose if you found it on your plate?”

Your heart stops for a second, your hands shaking as you cradle the phone to your ear. You try to speak, but no words come out of your mouth, even though the only word you want to say is “no” over and over and over.

You settle for a single hoarse, quiet “no” and she thanks you and hangs up.

* * *

_Spider Bake Sale - All proceeds go to real spiders._

You look at the gold in your hand and think about the sign you saw up ahead: _come eat food made by spiders, for spiders, of spiders!_

You like spiders - more than most people seem to, anyway - but there’s something about that description that makes you nauseous. Your stomach betrays you by growling again, as if to remind you that the licorice-flavored candy you ate earlier was hardly a meal.

You place seven gold pieces in one of the spiders’ webs. With what you’d almost say is chipperness, a pair of spiders descends down, holding an actual donut between their legs.

You look at it carefully. It doesn’t _look_ like it’s made of spiders. It has a cute purple design with spider-shaped sprinkles that, if you weren’t so hungry, would make you not want to eat it.

 _A donut made with Spider Cider in the batter,_ says the phantom, continuing to smile.

You wonder what Spider Cider is for about three seconds before you take a large bite out of the donut and swallow it.

You make a face like you’ve swallowed a lemon. It’s far, _far_ too sweet, even for a donut, even for a donut that might have been made out of spiders. And, just as bad, it doesn’t make you any less hungry. You think of what your father would call food like this, as if it wasn’t the only thing you ever ate - “junk food.”

You go over to the next web in sight and deposit all the rest of your gold into it, hoping that the spiders will give you something closer to an actual meal. You wouldn’t even feel guilty about it, like you usually do when people are nice enough to give you food - you sort of earned this money, after all. Even if it’s just pocket change from the monsters you’ve befriended.

The spiders - more of them this time - descend again with a purple jug, the words “SPIDER CIDER” written on the front in a label like you’d seen on bottles of poison in cartoons.

 _Made with whole spiders, not just the juice,_ says the phantom, and even with that smile, you don’t think they’re joking.

You take the jug gratefully, uncork the top, and drink, because even if it was actually poison you think you’d still try to drink it.

The smell of it alone is indescribable. If you had to try to describe it anyway, it’d be like vinegar mixed with mouthwash. Coincidentally, that’s also how you’d describe the _taste._

The only kind thing about it you can say about it is that it still tastes better than soda.

* * *

When you reach the quaint little house where the goat woman lives, you can smell what must be the smell of a pie baking before you even enter. It’s something you’ve never once smelled before - you hardly got the chance to ever visit a bakery - and yet it somehow makes you want to retch, as if it’s poisonous. It overwhelms your nostrils and makes the air taste like acid.

The smell only gets stronger when the goat woman pets your hair. You’re not sure which of those things makes you sicker.

It sticks to the air like a gas as you lay on the bedsheets facefirst and cover your head, as if you could hide yourself from it.

It gets even worse many hours later when, unaware that you’d slipped into sleep, you wake up with a blanket over you and a pie plate sitting on the floor.

You stare down at the pie like it’s the cause of everything that’s _wrong_ , and you clutch your head in your hands and try not to imagine the goat woman touching you, her sharp fangs glinting in the light as she speaks, not waiting to eat you but waiting to do what you know all mothers will do eventually.

You called her “mom,” after all, even if it was because the phantom told you to.

It’s only right that you get treated like a child.

You stuff a slice of the pie into your pockets, because there’s still a part of you that will never turn down free food. You see the vague shape of the phantom.

_Butterscotch-cinnamon pie, one slice._

* * *

There are burn marks on your flesh, on the exposed skin where parts of your sleeves used to be, the bandages and gauze across them. Your frizzy hair is singed. Your legs are about to give out.

You’re going to die here, to someone you once called your mother, and you suppose it had to happen one way or another.

The phantom prods you.

Eat the candy, it says.

You don’t understand at all, and yet you feel compelled to listen, if only out of the sense you have that you’ll die if you don’t. You unwrap the candy wrapper and raise the tiny piece of candy to your mouth, which you open very slowly and tentatively, like an infant being coaxed into eating a spoonful of porridge.

You put the candy in your mouth. But, instead of licorice, it tastes... good. Like chocolate, but not so chocolatey that it tastes gross instead.

_You ate the Monster Candy. Very un-licorice-like._

You feel strangely better, like your burns have healed themselves, like you can stand again. You still don’t understand, but... for once, you’re grateful to the phantom.

And yet, like the caterpillar, you still feel hungry.

* * *

The slice of the butterscotch-cinnamon pie is, possibly literally, burning a hole in your pocket. You don’t know why you haven’t eaten it - it’s the closest thing you have to real food, and you’re still so _hungry._ Maybe it’s because of that sickening smell - you wouldn’t be able to bring yourself to raise it to your lips.

You can’t stop thinking about your hunger even as you’re talking to a talking snowman, who is asking you to take a piece of it “very far away.” Maybe the phantom notices your hunger, as you carefully set the piece of the snowman in your pocket, because they say something.

_If you’re so hungry, eat that._

You try to shoot a glare at the phantom, at the mental image of them inside your head. They’re smiling, as usual - sometimes all you can see is their smile, like a Cheshire cat.

_Too good for it? I thought you were starving._

You try to look angrier. You don’t like being made fun of. Not about this, anyway. It brings to mind unpleasant memories.

_It’s a snowman. It’s not cannibal-_

Without thinking about it, you pull the piece of the snowman out of your pocket and stuff it into your mouth. You immediately regret it - it’s freezing cold in a way that makes your whole mouth hurt, like you’ve dumped a bag of ice into it. In spite of the pain, you stubbornly chew it until it’s in small enough pieces to swallow.

Somehow, it still tastes better than most of the things you’ve eaten over the past few hours.

 _Well, well,_ says the phantom dryly. _You sure showed me._

You realize, after a moment, what you’ve just done. You turn to look at the snowman. If a snowman had expressions, you think, you have a feeling the expression it was giving you was one of horror and revulsion.

“Did you just... consume the part of me I had given you?” the snowman says, slowly raising its voice in a way that makes you instinctively try not to flinch. “In front of my very eyes?! I have no words for you! Begone!”

You swallow, your mouth still aching from the cold. You want to apologize to the snowman, to say you didn’t mean it, that you weren’t thinking, but you don’t. You _can’t._ You just turn and walk away instead, feeling like an even worse person than you did before.

* * *

“I don’t understand why these aren’t selling,” mutters a blue rabbit monster to himself. “It’s the perfect weather for something cold...”

You stare at him blankly (although that is, in fairness, your usual way of staring at people), shivering in the frosty night air. At least, you think it’s night and you think it’s frosty - it’s as hard to tell what the time and weather is underground as it is hard to tell _how_ there is weather underground.

You only know one thing for sure - you’re cold.

“Oh!” exclaims the monster, immediately perking up. “A customer! Would you like some Nice Cream? It’s the frozen treat that warms your heart! Now just 15G!”

You really don’t, you think. On the rare occasions you’d had ice cream - at the party of a family friend, for instance - you had immediately vomited it back out. Every single time.

It was something about the sweetness of it, or maybe the cold, or even both. All you knew was that you’d stopped trying to eat ice cream and your parents had eventually stopped trying to force you to.

You shake your head, and the monster looks worse than disappointed - he looks _despondent,_ like his life has lost all meaning.

“Well then...” he says, sounding the most depressed you’ve ever heard another living being sound. “Tell your friends... there’s ice cream... out in the middle of the woods...”

Of course you feel bad for him. Of course you reach into your pockets and take out 15G worth of change, handing it to him. Of course he looks immensely happy about it, like nothing in the world could be better than this moment where he sold ice cream to a random kid in the middle of nowhere.

You put a little distance between yourself and the monster before you open the wrapper of the ice cream, revealing the brown popsicle underneath. Printed on the wrapper is an illustration of a hug between two monsters, or at least two things you think are monsters. It’s hard to tell, but it does make you feel strangely warmer. You even let a small, almost invisible smile cross your face as you look down at the drawing.

When was the last time someone had hugged you? Oh, right. The goat mother. You hadn’t really felt that was a proper hug - you’d just frozen up in her arms, the texture of her fur against your skin like knives, your heart pounding even faster than when she’d been casting fire spells at you. You couldn’t remember the last time you had a proper hug, just that it’d felt good, and that you wished you had someone you could hug now.

 _Don’t even think of asking_ me _to hug you_ , says the phantom abruptly, and your expression darkens. _I’m incorporeal._

You don’t respond. You don’t really want a hug from the phantom anyway, even if they’ve helped you sometimes. They aren’t very nice - you still haven’t forgiven them for the snowman.

 _So what are you going to do with the popsicle? Throw it out?_ they ask.

You consider it. But you imagine your mother - not the goat mother, your _real_ mother - and what she’d do if she found out you wasted perfectly good food. She’s not here, she can’t _possibly_ be here, but the sound of her voice hangs over you like a swinging pendulum. You _had_ to eat it, even if you didn’t want it. You _had_ _to_.

You take a big bite out of the popsicle. It’s a strange flavor - it takes you a second to recognize it as coconut, and another second to remember how much you hate the taste of coconut. It tastes like soap. You try to eat it anyway, the mantra of not wasting food running in circles through your head, but it’s only a few more bites before you vomit it all over the snow.

The phantom laughs. You wipe your mouth and hope that, at least, you won’t die of starvation.

* * *

_HUMAN!! PLEASE ENJOY THIS SPAGHETTI._

_(LITTLE DO YOU KNOW, THIS SPAGHETTI IS A TRAP...)_

_(DESIGNED TO ENTICE YOU!!!)_

_(YOU'LL BE SO BUSY EATING IT...)_

_(THAT YOU WON'T REALIZE THAT YOU AREN'T PROGRESSING!!)_

_(THOROUGHLY JAPED AGAIN BY THE GREAT PAPYRUS!!!)_

_NYEH-HEH-HEH, PAPYRUS_

Your stomach rumbles like a turbine as you read the note. _Spaghetti._ Actual, real food. Sure, it wasn’t exactly... traditional, although you’d had it before as part of napolitan... but you would try to eat an elephant if it meant getting food in your stomach.

Urged on by the phantom in your head, although you hardly need it, you walk over to the spaghetti and lift the fork. Or, rather, you try to lift the fork - it’s completely stuck to the table and feels as cold as the snow under your feet. You try again, pulling on it with all your might, but it remains firmly stuck.

That isn’t going to stop you, of course. You’re stubborn. You eagerly try to grab handfuls of the spaghetti itself, but what your hands touch is a rock-solid spaghetti sculpture, completely frozen to the plate. You even try to move the plate, but the plate is just as firmly attached to the table as the fork.

You want to cry. The one time you get the promise of an actual meal, it’s been left out in the cold, frozen so thoroughly that you’d need an ice pick to take a bite out of it.

You feel the phantom’s presence, but when you try to make them out, they aren’t smiling their usual smile. You get a vague sense, somewhere in your head, that they’re disturbed by something. Uncomfortable.

But then it passes.

Later, when Papyrus tells you that he’ll cook you all the spaghetti you could ever want, you’re hopeful that it’ll be a little warmer next time.

* * *

The bunny woman leans over the counter of her store, smiling a warm, friendly smile down at you.

“Are you here by yourself?” she asks, and you shift uncomfortably, unsure what it is you should say to her. You can’t remember the last time you were in a store unsupervised, without your parents doing all the talking for you. Not to mention, technically, the answer is that no, you aren’t.

 _Ask what she’s got for sale_ , the phantom suggests.

“B-buy,” you say, because the words get jumbled up in your head otherwise.

“Oh, you’re leaving?” she says.

You shake your head. You’re used to people misinterpreting you. “N-no. B-b-buy. Buy things.”

“Oh! You want to buy things, pumpkin?” she says. “Can do!”

You end up spending most of your gold at the store. You leave with a fingerless glove, a bandanna, two popsicles fused together (a “bisicle”), and something called a “cinnamon bunny,” which (as the phantom helpfully explains) is a cinnamon roll shaped like a bunny. You haven’t had cinnamon rolls very often - they could be found in bakeries all over Japan, but your parents weren’t the type to get you food from bakeries.

It’s more junk food - sugar and carbs. But, to you, this junk is treasure. You bite into the cinnamon bunny greedily, not even savoring it, cinnamon covering your brown hands like dust. The cinnamon bunny disappears in moments.

It’s the greatest thing you’ve ever had, you decide. It’s _perfect._ Not too sweet, with just the right touch of cinnamon to give it flavor. You think the bunny shape even makes it taste better, somehow.

You go back into the store, buy three more, and put them in your pocket for later.

* * *

You look at the burger, or what is probably still a burger after having been drowned in ketchup, and (for not the first time that day) your stomach rumbles. You don’t _want_ to eat it, but you _need_ to eat it, or you’re going to starve. You have to force it down, just like you always do.

Sans looks at you with... well, not an _expression_ exactly... but what you can’t help but interpret as pity. He pushes his plate towards you.

“eh, forgeddaboudit. you can have mine. i'm not hungry anyway.”

You barely pay attention to what Sans says as he leaves, you’re so busy staring at his - _your_ \- burger. Your stomach rumbles again, twisting around in your belly like it’s being tied up in knots.

The fire monster - Grillby, you think - stares at you. You can’t tell if he’s speaking or not, but a duck monster drinking nearby says that he said your food is probably cold.

You don’t care if it’s cold. It could be as frozen solid as that spaghetti and you’d still try to eat it.

But, as you stare at it, you can’t help but notice how _greasy_ it looks. How greasy it _smells._ It smells like it’s been drenched in oil for days, and maybe it _has,_ judging by its mirror sheen.

You reach out with careful, tentative hands and gently grasp the burger in them, making a sound that can only be described as a _squelch._ The burger all but disintegrates in your hand, collapsing like a black hole, and cooking oil, mustard, and ketchup all squirt out of it and run down your hands.

And it is, in fact, cold.

You don’t pull your hands free of the burger, even though every part of your brain, your body, feels nothing but disgust. With shaking hands, you lift it to your mouth, ketchup and oil dripping out of it and down your shirt, like blood.

You try, as hard as you can, just to take a tiny bite out of it. A nibble.

And you almost throw up. You have to choke back your nausea before you can open your mouth again, but now you can’t even lift it without almost emptying the contents of your stomach all over the counter.

It’s too much. It’s _too much._

You set the burger down, swallowing nothing but air. Without looking at anyone, you hold your arms tight to your chest and walk out of the bar, feeling even more hungry than when you entered it.

You can’t help but notice the phantom is being quiet.

* * *

You peer under the bench, in the little nook in Waterfall that the phantom pointed out for you. You don’t understand why a bench is there, or why you feel it’s so _familiar,_ but you understand even less why there’s an egg custard under it. A “quiche,” you think it’s called - you’ve never actually eaten one.

 _There’s a lone quiche sitting underneath the bench,_ says the phantom, confirming your suspicions. _Will you take it? Yes? No?_

You don’t need to be mentally prodded to say “yes.” It’s food, and you don’t care how long it’s been sitting in Waterfall’s muddy dirt. There’s only one problem, though, and that’s... where will you put it? Your pocket is crammed full of cinnamon bunnies and bisciles and tutus and other things.

 _You’re carrying too much,_ says the phantom with a smile. _You aren’t ready for the responsibility._

You stop, your breath catching, as it dawns on you. The bench is exactly the same as the one where...

“You _know,”_ you say, out loud, without stuttering.

 _Yes,_ says the phantom, its shape taking on more of a form. You can almost see the red of its cheeks, the green of its sweater. _I do. We share a mind - I know everything that you know._

“Get out of my head,” you reply, clutching at yours as if you can pull the phantom out. When that doesn’t work, you clumsily swing at the phantom with your fist, only for it to pass through it like through a fog. “Get out!”

 _Then where would you be?_ the phantom taunts. _Abandoned_ again? _Lost and confused, like you were before? You need me, as much as I need you._

You open your mouth to respond, but the words die in your throat. They’re right, you think. They’re _right._ You’re useless on your own. You’d never make it without their guidance.

 _The truth is, I pity you,_ the phantom says, and you don’t respond that you don’t want their pity, because they probably know that already. _No one should have to go through what you’ve gone through._

You say nothing.

 _But that’s all the more reason we should work together, you and I,_ the phantom continues. _A symbiotic relationship - you take me to the Barrier, while I guide you to freedom. And I won’t abandon you. I can’t abandon you._

They pause.

_How does that sound... partner?_

You think, _I don’t even know your name._

You see nothing but the phantom’s smile, wider than ever.

_I am Chara._

* * *

When you opened the cooler, you were expecting - or at least hoping - for something good to be in it. Something you actually liked. You were half-dreading it’d be nothing but soda, but you’re still surprised by what you actually do find: two chocolate-flavored nutrient bars labelled “SPACE FOOD STICKS,” with a picture of a bicyclist on the wrapper.

You’re not sure what the relation is between the bicyclist and outer space.

 _For feeding a pet astronaut,_ Chara jokes, and you wonder, as always, who they’re telling these jokes to. Because it’s certainly not you.

You’re not an astronaut, and something about _stealing_ food makes you uncomfortable, but you don’t think anyone would miss these, so you take them. You open the wrapper of one, revealing a brown chocolate bar that looks a lot like that one American candy - a Kit-Kat, you think it’s called.

You take a bite out of it, expecting it to taste like chocolate. It _sort of_ does, you think - but the chocolate taste is drowned out by the incredible taste of nothing. It’s otherwise completely flavorless, with maybe a tiny hint of chalk, and it sticks to your mouth like chewing gum.

 _No chocolate?_ Chara inquires.

 _Some chocolate,_ you think back.

 _False advertising then,_ Chara replies with what feels like a mental shrug.

You continue chewing on the “chocolate” bar. It feels disgusting in your mouth - you don’t know how something that’s been frozen in a cooler can congeal into paste so quickly - but it technically counts as food. Astronauts ate it, right?

In a few minutes, you’ve swallowed it, and... you feel surprisingly better. Fuller. Even though it tastes like nothing, it must have _some_ nutritional value in it. Maybe things that don’t taste like anything are healthy - you feel like you’ve heard something like that before.

You look down at the other space food bar in your hand.

And you’re filled with determination.

* * *

“oh... are you hungry...” whispers Napstablook, and you’re not as hungry as you were, but your stomach does growl when you look at their refrigerator. “i can get you something to eat...”

You step backwards as Napstablook floats over to their refrigerator, opens the door, and takes something out of it - it floats in front of them, which answers one of your questions.

The other question is answered when, in spite of your growing anticipation, you notice that the ham sandwich they’re holding out in front of themselves is semi-transparent. You can feel your stomach drop even before Napstablook speaks.

“this is a ghost sandwich... do you want to try it...” they ask.

You think that this entire underground is a practical joke made at your expense.

But it isn’t funny.

You quietly nod anyway. For no other reason than to calm your rumbling stomach, you bend down like you’re bobbing for apples and attempt to bite into the transparent sandwich. Your teeth clatter harshly together, causing pain to shoot through your mouth.

“oh...” sighs Napstablook as you rub your jaw. “after a great meal i like to lie down on the floor and feel like garbage... it’s a family tradition... do you want... to join me...”

You look towards Chara.

 _Oh, I’m an_ enormous _fan of that,_ they say. _Practically my hobby._

Taking that as encouragement, you walk over to join Napstablook and lay down on the floor, crossing your arms over your chest.

Keeping track of time has always been difficult for you, even if being still has been pounded into you since birth, but time seems to slow to even more of a crawl. You stare at the wooden ceiling, everything but you and Napstablook seeming to disappear...

_I’ve traveled very far from home..._

_Do I remember how my long journey began with someone leaving me behind, on a bench at a bus stop? It was my mother. I had still trusted her even then. That’s why I’d stayed there for twelve hours and forty-two minutes._

_I deserved to be abandoned, I had thought. I deserved to climb the mountain... to never return. Yet, in this underground realm, I have walked, thought, and never fought. I have never lost my courage... I have never lost my determination. I have felt pain and hunger, starvation and exhaustion, in my many battles, yet I have not given up. I have not given in to despair._

_And I am not alone. Chara is with me. They are abrasive, cruel, and even pretty, but they are always at my side. In a way, we are what they called us - partners. I feel, somehow, that I can rely on them._

_But it’s not like I have some awesome destiny to fulfill. Nothing like that ever happens to children like me. I just want to go home... even though I don’t really know why._

_I think it’s because there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to give up. That knows kindness must win in the end. That’s why, even if the world seems cruel, even if things seem hopeless, we must remain kind. That is what I believe. And I will never abandon that hope._

_Stay determined._

...You open your eyes, blinking, and raise yourself off the floor. You aren’t sure what just happened, but... you feel a lot better than you did before.

You turn towards Chara, or rather, where Chara is in your mental picture of them.

What you see is them crouching on the floor, wolfing down the ghost sandwich with a hunger that even you don’t think you could match.

You stare at each other.

Chara swallows.

_...You think I’m pretty?_

* * *

“Kid,” says the old sea turtle with a squint. “You look like you haven’t ate a thing in _weeks._ Your parents feeding ya right? ‘Cause if they aren’t, ol’ Gerson will beat ‘em up for ya! Wa ha ha! _”_

You don’t smile at the joke, as much as you have to admit that the image of an old turtle in a pith helmet beating up your parents is a tiny bit funny. Chara seems to be even more amused by it.

“Here,” says Gerson, reaching behind the counter and handing you a teacup with a glowing blue liquid in it, as well as what you’re pretty sure is a crustacean-shaped apple. “On the house. Wa ha ha!”

You gratefully take the crab apple and put it with the rest of your items, then pick up the teacup.

“And don’t stuff that tea in your pocket either!” Gerson says, although he doesn’t sound very angry about it. “You’ll make a mess all over your britches. And I don’t got spares.”

Nodding, you take a look at the drink in the teacup. It looks like the murky, glowing water all over Waterfall - the kind you thought was the result of some kind of algae. You can only hope the drink isn’t poisonous. Or radioactive.

 _Sea Tea. Made from glowing marshwater,_ Chara explains. You figured as much, but it still causes you to make a face.

Still, it’s something to drink, and it’s free. You lift it to your lips and sip, expecting it to taste like mud or plants or nuclear waste or something else that’s gross.

But it tastes... good? Really, really good. The taste is like freshly prepared tea, but... it’s not as bitter or vegetable-like as sencha and not overly sweet like Western tea. And it causes a strange sensation, from the tips of your toes to your top of your hair, a kind of warmth and energy you haven’t felt in a long time. It’s like magic. It probably _is_ magic. Hopefully that’s not also a sign that it’s irradiated.

Aware of how hungry you are, you quickly down the rest of the sea tea and then pull the crab apple out of your pocket. You bite down into the skin with a loud _crunch -_ juice explodes out of the apple and dribbles down your chin, which is more than a little gross, but you don’t care. The crab apple is _really_ good - it’s crisp and sweet without being overbearing, the complete opposite of its namesake.

By the time you’re done with both the sea tea and the crab apple, you can’t help but let a small smile cross your face. For you, it’s as if you’re beaming.

“Now _that’s_ a satisfied customer!” says Gerson with a grin. “You ever get hungry again, you come back here, y’hear? Heck, I’ll give ya a discount!”

Without a moment’s hesitation, you order as many crab apples as your pockets can carry.

* * *

Even you would never be desperate enough to eat the Temmie Flakes.

* * *

You spit out the Temmie Flakes.

“ _It’s just torn up pieces of colored construction paper,_ says Chara cheerfully, and you really wish they had said that _earlier._

* * *

**“PRE-HEAT YOUR OVENS, BECAUSE WE’VE GOT A VERY SPECIAL RECIPE FOR YOU TODAY,”** says Mettaton, in his deep, heavily modulated voice. **“WE’RE GOING TO BE MAKING... A CAKE! MY LOVELY ASSISTANT HERE WILL BE GATHERING THE INGREDIENTS. EVERYONE GIVE THEM A BIG HAND!”**

In a few minutes, you gather the ingredients that Mettaton requested of you. Not sure what to do with them, you stack them awkwardly on top of each other.

You hope you’re doing it right. You could really go for a cake - that sounds delicious.

“ **WE’VE GOT ALL THE INGREDIENTS WE NEED TO BAKE THE CAKE! MILK... SUGAR... EGGS...”** Mettaton gasps. **“OH MY! WE’RE MISSING THE MOST IMPORTANT INGREDIENT!”**

You turn to look at Mettaton, only to see him very, very slowly pull a _chainsaw_ out from under the counter.

**“A HUMAN SOUL!!!”**

_Of course_ , you think, as the chainsaw slowly approaches you.

* * *

You remember seeing, in cartoons, cute bento boxes with hot dog sausages cut into the shape of octopi. It was never something you’d had the luxury of eating yourself, but you’d always thought the cartoons made them look better than they ever could be in reality. You’d decided that if you did get old enough to be independent, you’d eat one of them before you died.

Now you were staring at something else you’d never seen before, a more mundane thing to add to an ever-growing list: an actual hot dog, in a bun, with two sausage “ears.” Your stomach rumbles as you look at it - like you actually are in a cartoon, it almost seems to sparkle in your vision.

You take the hot dog from Sans’ hands. When you do, you squeeze it slightly and it somehow _barks_ , which startles you so much that you drop it on the ground. Your stomach sinks just as low.

“hey, no worries,” Sans says, smiling as always. “dogs belong on the ground. you ever see a flying dog?”

After a pause, he adds: “catch.”

Almost before you know what’s happening, he throws a hot dog far above your head. You jump almost impossibly high and catch it. Chara claps.

 **“** well, now i’ve seen everything,” Sans says.

As soon as you land, you eagerly take a bite of the hot dog - it barks again, but you’re expecting it this time - and... almost spit it out. It’s not the hot dog itself, but the taste of the mustard and ketchup Sans has slathered along the bun. It’s really disgusting, not to mention it makes the bread all soggy.

Sans seem to read your mind.

“not a fan of ketch ‘n’ must? that’s what we call them in the business.” A sideways glance. “the h’og business. that’s short for ‘hot dog.’”

You nod. Sans pulls another hot dog out from his station and hands it to you. There’s no mustard or ketchup this time, so you eat it without hesitation. You almost smile. It tastes _good,_ even if you have to ask yourself where monsters get their meat products from. You don’t even normally like meat.

 _The meat is made from something called a ‘water sausage’,_ Chara explains, and you wish you hadn’t asked.

“D-dog?” you ask Sans when you’re finished, because even if it is literally just a plant, you don’t have many options to choose from.

“no, this is sans. i’m a skeleton. but, if you want a dog...” He shrugs. “i’m fresh out. have a hot cat.”

He hands you a sausage on a bun with sausage cat ears and sausage whiskers. You stuff it in your pockets (it meows) and hold out your hands for another.

“you’re holding too much. here, i’ll just put in on your head.”

True to his word, he reaches out and puts the hot cat on your head. It’s warm, you think.

You’re pretty sure you could fit another one in your pockets though, if you tried. You have big pockets. You hold out your hands.

“another? well, i don’t see why not.”

He puts this one on your head too.

You shake your head and hold out your hands. Chara starts to giggle, and you swear Sans’ poker face almost breaks.

“here. have fun.”

He sticks another sausage on your head. You repeat it over and over and over again, until the hot dogs (or cats) are perfectly stacked in a twenty-sausage high pillar, until Sans is having to climb onto his sentry station to put more on, until Chara is literally rolling with laughter on the ground nearby. The whole time, you don’t move a centimeter, not even to try to balance the sausage stack and keep it from falling like a daruma otoshi.

You don’t even dare to smile.

Sans somehow manages to stack on what you count as nine more, but you can’t raise your head to see how, and you don’t even want to move your eyes. You blink and he’s no longer on his roof but back at his sentry station, looking as if he hasn’t moved at all.

“as much as i like putting hot dogs on your head, thirty is just an excessive number,” he says. “twenty-nine, now that’s fine, but thirty... does it look like my arms can reach that high?”

 _Oh my god,_ says Chara, in your head. _It’s magnificent._

With the enthusiasm of a child knocking over their tower of building blocks, you immediately take a step to your left. The hot dogs fall like, more or less, a stack of playing cards, or perhaps more accurately, like a dozen foot high tower of falling hot dogs.

 _Oh, you’re no fun,_ says Chara as a hot dog flies through their incorporeal form. But the smile on their face seems, for once, to be genuine.

* * *

If there’s one thing you aren’t expecting when you travel further into Hotland, it’s a hotel and resort. You’ve seen those, but you’ve never been _in_ one, and you approach it with no small amount of trepidation.

Fortunately, there’s someone familiar standing just outside the entrance. You wonder how he got there before you, but he does seem to always have his “shortcuts.” You still don’t know how those work - you’re pretty sure that Grilby’s had been the opposite direction he’d taken you back in Waterfall.

“hey. i heard you’re going to the core. how about grabbing some dinner with me first? Yeah. I’m busy.”

It takes you a moment, and Chara’s prompting, for you to realize that he’s not saying _he’s_ busy, but offering _you_ a choice of what to say. Exactly like Chara does.

That’s... very weird.

“Yeah?” you say after a confused, awkward pause.

“great. thanks for treating me,” he says before tilting his head towards the back alley. “over here. i know a shortcut.”

You follow him into the alley, which seems like a terribly bad idea if all the warnings you’ve ever had about not going into alleys are true. The alley quickly grows darker and yet darker until it’s pitch black and you can’t see Sans any more...

And then you’re in a restaurant, seated at a table across from him.

“well, here we are,” Sans says, as if nothing has happened.

You greedily snatch at the menu. An actual _dinner!_ At a _resort!_ You don’t want to think about how long it’s been since you’ve had an actual meal. And who knows what they serve? They might even have chicken nuggets!

Belatedly, you realize Sans is still talking, ironically something or other about you having food down here. You try to listen to him - you have a feeling it's important - but all you can focus on is just how _hungry_ you are. You can't decide on what to order. Milkshakes, steaks, hamburgers... everything sounds more delicious than the last.

Eventually, you can’t help but notice that you haven’t been given a knife or fork. And that no waiters have arrived. Does anyone even know you’re here...?

You’re about to ask Sans when a waiter is going to come when his eyes suddenly go dark, becoming blank sockets.

“ **Y o u ‘ d b e d e a d w h e r e y o u s t a n d.”**

Your blood goes ice cold. You try to swallow, but you can’t. Tears fill your eyes. Even Chara, usually aloof, becomes deathly quiet. You can feel their shock inside your mind.

Sans’ pupil returns to his eye socket and he continues grinning at you as if he hadn’t said anything wrong. He doesn’t look remotely guilty, even as your vision blurs.

“hey, lighten up, bucko! i’m just joking with you.”

 _But it wasn’t funny_ , you think, wiping at your eye with your sleeve.

 _What an asshole,_ Chara agrees, as if they haven’t done similarly cruel things.

A moment later, after confusing you both by suspiciously questioning whether you’ve died or not, Sans leaves. He tells you that “someone really cares about you,” which you already know, already feel terrible about, and now know for sure isn’t Sans.

Your food never arrives.

* * *

“Seriously?” says the cat cashier, who Chara insists on calling ‘Burgerpants.’ “You still want one of those things? I just told you it’s made of _sequins and glue,_ and you’re going to _eat it?”_

You nod, as if it wasn’t obvious. Then you point to the other items on the menu - a ‘starfait,’ a ‘legendary hero,’ and a ‘steak in the shape of Mettaton’s face.’ You drop a huge pile of gold from out of your pockets on the counter and the cashier grins an enormous, almost manic grin.

“SURE! WHATEVER! Just as long as I’m not financially liable when your _stomach explodes_ and you _die!”_

 _This guy seems normal,_ says Chara. You ignore them and frown at the cashier.

“What? You’re worried your stomach’s _actually_ going to explode...?” he says, before shaking his head with a smirk. He takes a cigarette out of his pocket and (somehow, without lighting it) starts to smoke it. “Listen here, kid. Ever since I hit the ripe old age of fifteen, I’ve given up on living a long, healthy life. I eat Glamburgers for breakfast, brunch, lunch, dinner, and fourthmeal. I smoke six packs a day. And, against all odds, common sense, and my own will, I’m still here.”

You stare at him. He reaches out over the counter and ruffles your hair, and you cough, eyes watering, at the cigarette smoke wafting through the air.

“That will be 980G. Thanksy! Have a FABU-FUL day!”

When you leave the store, carrying a ton of food in your arms, Chara is squinting at you.

_As if you had 980 gold. How did you pay for that stuff?_

_I just gave him what I had,_ you admit. _I don’t think he actually counted._

* * *

Everything about Mettaton’s true form is overwhelmingly frenetic, to your sensitive eyes, your sensitive ears, your sensitive _brain._ He’s constantly moving and gyrating, there are lights flashing and whirling all around the room, tiny Mettatons are dropping from the ceiling. It’s taking all your effort just to focus, much less to dodge, much less to boast or pose.

It’s no surprise you’re taking a serious beating, but... you’re also having an odd amount of fun, despite the blood on your face and the fresh tears in your clothes. You’ve never done anything like this before. You’ve never been cheered on by an audience before. You’ve never moved, danced, spoken, _lived_ like this before. It energizes you, it strengthens you, it makes you _determined._

But all the determination in the world can’t keep you on your feet when you’re this badly injured. You have to eat something or you’re going to collapse.

You reach into the pocket of your overalls and take out the steak shaped like Mettaton’s face. Mettaton’s actual face, on the other side of the room, smirks at it.

“Oh? Feeling a little peckish, darling?” he says. “I know I’m _irresistible,_ but you’ll never take a _bite_ out of _me.”_

On cue, you face the cameras. And lift the Mettaton-shaped steak into the air. Spotlights all turn towards you, almost blinding in their brightness, as they light up the steak in your hands.

You bring it down in one motion and take the biggest bite you can out of Mettaton’s head.

You don’t even normally like meat, but it tastes... bad. It tastes, if you had to describe it, like rubber. For all you know, it _actually is_ made out of rubber. Unseasoned, flavorless, all-natural rubber. You want to spit it back out, but instead, you force yourself to swallow.

The look of horror that crosses Mettaton’s face is worth it.

“Y... your food!” you shout, striking a pose while pointing at Mettaton with your free hand. “Tastes like _g-garbage!_ ”

The ratings shoot up. All the spotlights turn towards Mettaton, who has stopped dancing.

“Is that so?” he says smugly. He tosses his ‘hair’ back. “Well, sweetie, we’ll just have to see what I can do with a new _ingredient!”_

The ratings shoot up even further.

* * *

The only sound, besides your breathing, besides Asgore’s breathing, is the hum of the barrier underfoot, the hum of the six canisters holding the six previous human souls. Even Chara, in your head, has gone completely silent.

You break the silence. Your voice is weak, quiet, wavering, but you speak more clearly than you've ever spoke in your life.

“I don’t want to fight you.”

His hands waver for just a moment, but he swings his trident at you. The speartips rip through your shirt, through your flesh, fresh blood dripping down onto the floor. You wobble but stand your ground.

“I don’t want to fight you.”

Asgore’s breathing quickens, his shoulders tensing, before he raises his paws. Fire twists around in front of them and then descends in a wave towards you. There’s barely any room, any possibility, of dodging, so the flames nearly incinerate you. It smells of burnt flesh, but still, you stand your ground.

In as firm a voice as you can muster, you say:

“I don’t want to fight you.”

For a moment, something shines in Asgore’s eyes. You almost feel as if you can see into his soul - you feel the connection between you and him, an understanding that neither of you want this.

Then Asgore stabs you through the heart.

* * *

“This is the third time you’ve killed me. Please, let’s not fight.”

Asgore nods sadly.

His trident slashes straight through you.

* * *

“This is the seventh time you’ve killed me. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Asgore nods grievously.

The trident aims straight between your eyes.

* * *

“I’ve lost count of how many times you’ve killed me.”

Asgore nods pitifully.

The flames burns you to a crisp.

* * *

On one of those uncountable attempts, you take something out of your overalls. It’s something you haven’t wanted to eat - you’d felt like it was the only memory you had of her. Even though you hadn't trusted her, she did care about you, more than your real mother ever had. So it had been keeping you determined all this time, to succeed, to survive.

But, at this point, you’d exhausted all your other food. You had nothing left. So you take it out - the butterscotch-cinnamon pie. The smell of butterscotch and cinnamon wafts through the air, somehow just as fresh as it had been the day you’d started this journey. It doesn’t make you want to retch as badly anymore.

Asgore’s expression softens when he smells it. He stares at you, and you at him.

“You... you want?” you offer, in your quiet, hoarse voice.

“Really?” he says, in a voice like a child expecting punishment. “You would give one... to me?”

You smile. “Y-yes.”

His trident dissipates from his paw, and he walks forward in heavy, booming steps until he’s in front of you. He sits down on his knees and gently, carefully, takes a slice of the butterscotch-cinnamon pie.

You take a bite of yours. It’s not _just_ good, despite the place it’s been all these days. It’s _better_ than good - it’s the best thing you’ve eaten since you came down here. The flavor seems to have made just for your delicate taste buds, so as not to be overwhelming. It has the perfect amount of sweetness, flakiness, and crust - it’s nothing less than a completely flawless recipe.

Asgore looks just as pleased. He hums to himself as he swallows his slice, a pleased smile crossing his face. He looks almost as if he’s been taken back to some happier time, as if your surroundings, as if the battle you had just been fighting, have been forgotten about.

“See?” you say. “You’re not a bad person. You don’t ha-”

You don’t feel it happen. All you sense is Chara shouting at you, seconds before the trident pierces through your stomach and out your back. You let out a deep, shaking breath, and then go limp.

“I’m sorry,” says Asgore softly, his voice filled with guilt. “I truly am.”

That’s the last time you eat the butterscotch-cinnamon pie.

* * *

pןoɔ os sʇı

𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚜𝚘 𝚑𝚘𝚝

you

cant

breathe

y

o

u

c

a

n

t

t

h

i

n

k

🇾🇴🇺'🇷🇪 🇬🇴🇮🇳🇬 🇹🇴 🇩🇮🇪

here

alone

y҉o̵҉ų̶͘

c̴͝a҉͠n'͠t̶͝

ḩ͝e͡҉a̷r͝

chara

̡̕a͜͢n͝͏y͏m̴̨͡o͏̷̵r̨̧e̢̕͟

you

cant

hear

ａｎｙｔｈｉｎｇ

anymore

ʍou ＥＶＥＲＹＴＨＩＮＧ ɹɐǝɥ uɐɔ noʎ

especially

laughter

_  
**HAHAHAHAHAHAHA**  
_

You called for help...

flames

𝓫𝓾𝓻𝓷

your

flesh

ʎǝɥʇ ǝɹɐ ǝɹǝɥʍ

𝕨𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕖 𝕒𝕣𝕖 𝕪𝕠𝕦

**🇾🇴🇺'🇷🇪 🇬🇴🇮🇳🇬 🇹🇴 🇩🇮🇪**

**🇾🇴🇺'🇷🇪 🇬🇴🇮🇳🇬 🇹🇴 🇩🇮🇪**

**🇾🇴🇺'🇷🇪 🇬🇴🇮🇳🇬 🇹🇴**

You feel it all at once - warmth, comfort, kindness, not abstract things but _real_ things, absorbing into your soul, and you breathe them all in like a drowning man gasping for air.

You’re swamped not with darkness but with memories: homemade cooking, pouring through old family recipe books, gifting everything you can to the hungry and the needy.

The smell of rising dough, spices, sweets.

The taste of eggs, sunny-side up.

The euphoria of a good deed.

And, at last, the ghost of two hands clasping yours, hands darker and larger than your own. An apron, so vague and ephemeral you could almost think it’s your mind playing tricks on you.

But you have no doubt it’s real.

* * *

“I’ll get you something to drink,” Undyne says. It’s odd to see her now, of all times - you don’t know why you didn’t see her _before_ you used your mysterious power to reset the timeline. Maybe you were half-afraid she’d throw another spear through you.

But Flowey had told you that you needed to see her, so see her is what you did.

“All set!” Undyne says with a grin. “What would you like?”

You move barely a centimetre from the chair and Undyne instantly summons a spear and chucks it through the table with such force that the table completely breaks in half. Chara, who has been sitting in the back of your mind and literally radiating boredom at you, is so startled that you feel your heart pound like a drum against your chest. But you, on the other hand, don’t react at all.

“HEY!!! DON’T GET UP!!!” Undyne screams. “YOU’RE THE GUEST!! SIT DOWN AND ENJOY YOURSELF!!!”

Then she seems to realize she needs to tone down the intensity just a touch and crosses her arms.

“Um, why not just point to what you want?” she says. “You can use the spear!”

Gently, you take the spear into your hands and aim it across the room. Chara, now at full attention, points out things as you pass over them, starting with Undyne (“I don’t think you should pick her,” they say, and you agree), then the sugar (“she’s not going to give you a cup of sugar, she’s not your neighbor,” which, true), then the soda on the oven (“sickly yellow liquid.”)

You intend to skip past it, but Undyne seems to take your moment of hesitation as you pointing to it.

“Oh, soda?” she offers.

You frown deeply. You don’t want to say no to her, but you absolutely do _not_ want soda. Even if _that_ soda didn’t look disgusting, _all_ soda is disgusting. The carbonation, the sugar, the strong flavor, the way it bubbles in your mouth... it all makes you want to throw up. It’s worse than anything. Even licorice.

Undyne frowns back.

“Actually, even though you pointed to it, you don’t look happy,” she says, and then chuckles. “Heh! That’s fine! I think soda’s gross, too! It rots your teeth... it rots your mind...” She grins manically. “IT ROTS YOUR FIGHTING SPIRIT!”

 _Why does she have it then...?_ you wonder.

“...Huh?” she says, as if you spoke out loud. “Why do I have it?”

She doesn’t answer. She just blushes and looks away with a small smile.

 _That’s adorable,_ Chara thinks. You try not to giggle and decide to move on to the rest of the items.

You pass the spear over the box of tea bags. Chara says that they’re the “blatantly correct choice,” so you pause until Undyne realizes you’ve chosen them.

“Tea, huh?” she says. “Coming right up!”

True to her word, Undyne starts making the tea, waiting with surprising patience as the water slowly boils.

Chara is not so patient. While the two of you wait, they talk to you.

 _Why are we listening to that flower, anyway?_ they say.

 _Flowey?_ you ask. _Maybe he really has changed. Just look at Undyne. She was trying to kill me too, but she stopped._

_She threw a spear at you five minutes ago._

_She threw a spear at the_ table, _not me,_ you correct. _And look at all the monsters we’ve seen. Look at Asgore. Even he gave up in the end. He just wanted to see his family again. We’ve got to give Flowey a chance too._

 _You’re naive,_ Chara scoffs, but the meanness in it seems... less potent, somehow. _But... that’s what makes you you, I guess._

 _I want to ask you something too,_ you think. _Why did you want me to take you to the barrier?_

 _That's for me to know and you to_ never _find out._

“Okay, it’s all done!” Undyne calls out, before walking over to you carrying a cup of tea. “Here you are! Careful, it’s hot!”

You decide to give it a moment to cool down.

“It’s not THAT hot!” Undyne says before you can even finish that thought. “Just drink it already!”

You drink it. It’s plenty hot, so much so that you nearly drop the cup on the floor - you can only assume that it must somehow be easier to handle for a fish woman - but you take a quick sip of it anyway. You cringe at the heat on your tongue, but the taste really isn’t that bad. It’s distinctly herbal in flavor, somewhat bitter but mostly sweet.

 _You take a sip of the tea,_ Chara says. _It’s burning... but other than that, it’s pretty good._

“It’s pretty good, right?” Undyne says, as if she can hear Chara. Which maybe she can, for all you know. It wouldn’t be the strangest thing you’ve experienced. She slaps a hand on the table and both cups rattle. “Nothing but the best for my ABSOLUTELY PRECIOUS FRIEND!”

Despite her yelling, she calmly lifts her cup to her lips and takes a sip of her own tea.

“You know, it’s kind of strange that you picked that tea...” she says, sounding as if she’s talking more to herself than to you. “Golden flower tea... that’s Asgore’s favorite kind. Actually, now that I think about it...” She grins. “You kind of remind me of him.”

You remember the butterscotch-cinnamon pie, still warm in your overalls.

And you remember all the times he killed you.

You wonder how she’d feel knowing he died once before, and that you were the one who almost did it.

“You’re both TOTAL WEENIES!!!” she shouts, and you’re glad she can’t actually read your thoughts.

* * *

“Thanks for your help back there.

You guys... Your support really means a lot to me.

But... As difficult as it is to say this...

You guys alone can't magically make my own problems go away.

I want to be a better person.

I don't want to be afraid anymore.

And for that to happen, I have to be able to face my own mistakes.

I'm going to start doing that now.

I want to be clear.

This isn't anyone else's problem but mine.

But if you don't ever hear from me again...

If you want to know ‘the truth.’

Enter the door to the north of this note.

You all at least deserve to know what I did.”

You stare at the note blankly before gently placing it back down on the ground. Without a word, you enter the bathroom. You don’t even react to recognizing that it’s actually an elevator. You just press the button on the wall to go down.

 _You don’t think she...?_ Chara says, in your mind. _Flowey said we’d get a happy ending if we did this. I don’t think this really counts._

You say nothing. The elevator rattles, then begins to descend.

 _Whatever she did... must have been really horrible,_ Chara continues. You feel them crossing their arms, even though you don’t think they can feel the cold. _Doing that to yourself... it’s not pleasant._

 _How would you know?_ you think, and Chara’s surprise makes you realize you thought that out loud.

But then you feel Chara grin - an empty, hollow grin.

_How do you think._

_Oh,_ you think. _I see._

 _You know what it’s like too,_ Chara continues. _Don’t you?_

You don’t get a chance to answer before alarms start going off and the elevator begins to fall.

* * *

You stick twenty-five gold coins into the vending machine. A bag of chips is reeled out, then falls down, and you reach into the slot and take it out.

 _Chisps,_ says Chara’s voice.

_What?_

_They’re popato chisps._

You look at the bag. They’re just called “POTATO CHIPS,” in generic, flavorless lettering.

_No, they’re not._

_Would I lie to you? You’ve realized who I am by now, I’m sure. I know the Underground better than anyone. They’re popato chisps._

You suppose that makes sense, even though you don’t actually know what they’re alluding to. They must have been down here a long time, as a phantom.

_OK._

_Do you even_ like _poptato chisps?_

_No._

_Wow, no soda, no poptato chisps? I pity your taste buds. You could at least share them, you know._

You gently toss the poptato chisps at them and they crash against the floor and explode. You have to buy a second bag, but Chara’s laughter is worth it.

* * *

“Okay, Chara, are you ready?” says a voice from the TV speakers. “Do your creepy face!”

Three things happen at once when you hear that voice.

The first is that you drop the bag of potato chips you’ve been holding onto the floor, and the bag pops open and spills the chips all across it.

The second comes from Chara. Your mind, your mental image of Chara, the sound of their voice which has long been both your antagonist and your friend, becomes filled with piercing static. You can’t see straight - lights flash in your head, straight lines form odd shapes you can only barely recognize as having once been Chara’s form. You can tell somehow that they’re clutching their head, and you clutch yours too, as if it will make the pain stop.

The third comes from you. You know now what Chara was talking about. You know now who they are, who they _were._ You don’t know who it is that’s speaking on the tape, not at first, until the overwhelming static in your brain coalesces into two words:

“ASRIEL DREEMURR.”

* * *

“Your ‘determination,’” says the voice that echoes all through your ears, all through your mind, demanding that you, that Chara, give up, that you stop fighting, that you stop _trying._ “The power that let you get this far... it’s gonna be your downfall!”

You refuse to give up. You refuse to stop trying. You hold Chara’s hand in your bloody, scarred fist, even though Chara’s the one who is scared and afraid and overwhelmed now, even though Chara is barely visible through the overwhelming rainbow surrounding you in every direction, and you stand and face down Asriel’s attacks.

You, and Chara, together, you dream.

You dream of the Surface, of the world you once called home. You dream of the monsters living in freedom. You dream of peace between humans and monsters - an end to war between their species, an end to all war around the globe, an end to armageddon and global warming and hatred and death and starvation.

Asriel slashes at you with his swords and your shirt and overalls, already torn and shredded all over, leaving your body marred with scratches and cuts and burns, gain yet more holes. Blood spills down your sleeves from where you held your arms up to defend yourself and drips, drop by drop, onto the floor.

Chara dreams, at first, of what's clearly an old dream - they dream of themselves, towering over Asgore despite their small frame, gathering his soul into their chest. They dream of themselves striking down humans with their newfound power and shattering the barrier themselves.

But then they dream of something else - of the Underground, the world they once called home. They dream of an Underground empty but free, a world where monsters can live without persecution. They dream of getting to live on that world with their best friend, Asriel, with the people they almost considered family, happy and safe. And they dream, with you, of doing it without ever harming anyone. They know it’s impossible, but they dream that dream just as hard as you dream yours, until the impossibility fades away and only the dream remains.

And something, in your overall pocket, glows.

You reach into the pocket and pull out a last dream. You know it’s not just a dream, but a last dream, without being told, because you can feel a warmth in it that only comes from the end of good dreams, when you wake up happy and satisfied and with a pleasant hum in your heart.

And, like all dreams, it will fade away if not cared for.

You don’t want to lose it. You want to keep it forever. Without even consciously thinking about it, you lift it towards your lips - it lights up your face with a golden glow, reflecting off the red of your eyes, as you cup it like water, like nectar, taking a deep, long sip from it until the glow is no more.

You feel the warmth spread outward throughout your body as it settles into your stomach. You feel it expanding, filling you, strengthening you... you feel your wounds painlessly close up, your burns healing themselves.

It tastes warm, slightly bitter, and sweet, all at once.

 _It’s pretty good_ , you think, as you stand once more in front of Asriel, the dream in both your hearts singing.

* * *

“Frisk? That’s... a nice name.”

* * *

You stand in front of the mirror and touch your reflection with your fingertips. Your hair is burned and singed. Your face is scarred and cut. Your clothes are in tatters. You have nothing left, save for the butterscotch-cinnamon pie.

And save for Chara, who you see, clear as day, floating next to you. With a smile, they place their hand on your shoulder and smile gently at your reflection.

“Despite everything...” they say. “It’s still you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much to Ivy and Willow for reading this fic! Thank you to light_rises as well for inspiring this fic with their tweet!


End file.
